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LONDON: R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL.
It was a common sight--so common that it attracted no attention
from the multitude who crowded on its path, as with eager care-worn
faces they hurried on in their several avocations; and yet it was a strange
sight too for them if they would but have thought upon it--the passing
amongst them of that quiet traveller to the realms unseen! For so surely as
he was even now moving on to the portals of the land which is very far off,
they themselves, with
their swift impatient feet, were speeding unconsciously on the same journey.
We say unconsciously, for each one had set before himself some desirable
object of attainment for which he toiled that day--wealth, fame,
ambition, love--some bright vision, to realize which he gave up
unreservedly the redeemless hours of his existence, whilst, with every
breath he drew in labouring for it, he shortened the life for which it was
to be attained. Yet even as he had done, who was now carried
past so helplessly, that his dust might duly be returned to its kindred
dust--that living mass of human beings would toil and yearn for their
fancied good, till, with strength and energy all spent and gone, they saw
the fair phantom of their hopes dissolve in air, disclosing to their view
the grave alone--that actual reality for which they had been working!
It had been so with him whose rigid corpse now went so still and silently
through the noise and turmoil of the world he had loved.
Mr. Maynard had been a wealthy city merchant; in early youth he had been
thrown on his own resources, penniless, and well nigh friendless. He was a
man resolute of will, and of good abilities; but his mind, having never
been directed to the Unseen Truths, had fixed itself entirely on the
fleeting realities of this life.
He looked keenly into his own position, and he perceived that, in this world, wealth is the one thing needful. He therefore determined to attain it.
From that time his life was given up to this object only. He toiled, he
slaved, he speculated; he rose up early, and late took rest; he ate the
bread of carefulness; he wasted lavishly his health and strength and
intellect; he devoured widows' houses, and made the orphan desolate:
for as his desire strengthened till he grew to be its very slave, he cared
little for the injury done to others in its accomplishment--and he
succeeded. Man has a mighty power in working out a resolute purpose, be it
for good or evil, if his whole soul is concentrated upon it. Mr. Maynard
became rich, beyond what he had ever hoped for when he set out on his
pilgrimage to the shrine of his god, Mammon; but still he laboured on,
plunging into speculation, for to make money was the aim and end of his
existence, and he could not stop now. Some dim vision may have been before
him of a luxurious retirement hereafter, where he should dwell, surrounded
by all the splendour and comfort wealth could procure him; but his health
failed him meantime, sacrificed to his laborious and unremitting industry.
Death came and took him when his soul was so wrapped up in the
cares of life, that this tremendous reality was to him but a far-off haunting shadow, too distant and uncertain to be heeded. Death came and took him, and then it was found that he had gained but one thing with the toil and labour and sacrifice of his whole life; he had earned for himself the gorgeous monument whose ponderous bulk was henceforth to weigh down upon his mouldering remains. To the last hour of his existence he worked like a slave, and this was the sole fruit he reaped from his labours--the costly tomb, wherein his worn and wasted body would fall perhaps a little less quickly to decay than in some green churchyard of holier and humbler aspect.
Mr. Maynard left two daughters. He had married somewhat late in life,
for the sole purpose of connecting himself with the father of his bride,
the head of a great mercantile house. It was his desire to succeed to this
man's position at his death, and this wish was fulfilled.
A very few years had passed away, and his wife died. Neglected, though
uncomplaining, she perished for want of sympathy and affection, as flowers
fade when deprived of air and sunshine. Her little daughters were given up
to the care of nurses and governesses, and Mr. Maynard required, not
unfrequently, to be reminded of their existence.
If he remembered them at all in his dying hour, so appalling in its
suddenness, it must have been with a pang of remorse, for he had made no
provision for them--not from wilful neglect, but simply because he
never thought of death at all; it was a contingency which did not enter
into his speculations.
He left no will, and the management of his affairs naturally devolved on
his partner, Mr. Hardman. By some process of calculation peculiar to
himself, this gentleman discovered that all which remained of Mr.
Maynard's capital must now become merged in that of the house. His
speculations had in fact ruined him, and the rich man's orphan
children did not inherit from him so much as the cost of that same stately
tombstone which Mr. Hardman deemed it his duty to erect over his grave.
Some little property Elizabeth and Agnes Maynard had received at their
mother's death, and this circumstance had induced Mr. Hardman
voluntarily to constitute himself their guardian. To do him justice, he was
certainly in some degree influenced in his decision by the glimmerings of
better feeling, which shone through this worldly man's profound and
inherent selfishness when he thought of the desolate condition of his
partner's daughters.
They sat together now in the darkened room
from which their father's coffin had been carried an hour before, and both were in bitter sorrow. It is a blessed thing, that atmosphere of love which pervades this whole wide restless world, emanating, no doubt, from the unseen presence of Him who is Love, and penetrating, in some one shape or other, into the life of the most forlorn amongst us. Not a flower perishes from the green earth, but the dews of heaven weep over it; not a human being is laid down in the unresisting helplessness of death, but tears are found from human eyes to fall upon him.
Mr. Maynard had certainly done as little to awaken affection or inspire
regret as most men, and yet the sobs of his orphan children came thick and
fast, as they heard the tramp of the horses which bare him away.
But there are two kinds of sorrow with which the dead are mourned, and
Mr. Maynard could lay claim to one of them only; there is the natural
instinct, the mysterious claim of the ties of blood, which sends a bitter
pang through the heart when they are rent asunder, added to that strange
pity which we never fail to experience for the powerless corpse stretched
out so pale and cold before us, although we know well that ourselves shall
soon be laid as cold and pale, and haply the thought is sweet
to us, as that of the evening rest to the wearied labourer toiling in the heat of noon. But there is another far deeper misery which rises up from the grave of the departed to overwhelm us, when it is, so to speak, the soul of him who is gone forth that we have loved; the soul whose superior holiness has been perhaps like the brightness of an angel to our less elevated gaze, whose goodness has won our reverence, whose gentleness has gained our deepest love.
No such lofty and holy affection as this had bound the soul of the stern
worldly-minded man to his young daughters; and perhaps we might
rightly enough estimate the nature of the welcome which the departed shall
receive from the brotherhood of saints above, by the character of the
sorrow with which they are lamented here.
Had Elizabeth and Agnes Maynard analyzed their feelings in this the
saddest hour of their lives, they would have found that they mourned far
less for their father, to whom they were almost strangers, than for that
bitter sense of desolation against which the warm, loving heart of youth
rebels so strongly.
They nestled close together; Agnes, who was scarce sixteen, and five
years younger than her sister, clung to her with a sort of
innocent helplessness, which resulted more from her peculiar disposition than from her early youth.
She was singularly sweet-tempered and guileless, but altogether
deficient in moral courage and strength of mind; as she advanced out of
childhood, she seemed only to lean the more hopelessly on the guidance of
others, instead of exerting the powers of her own mind; and the prevailing
feature of her character was a clinging and passionate tenderness of
disposition, over which she neither had, nor attempted to have, any control
whatever. Elizabeth had far more depth of character, with an intensity and
sensitiveness of feeling which would scarce have been looked for under her
outward reserve of manner. Her affection for those she loved was of a
nature so profound and exacting, that it had engendered that jealousy of
disposition which makes such havoc of the soul that harbours it. As yet
this fatal propensity had been little called forth, for her whole thoughts
were centred on Agnes, and the sisters had now no other home but in their
mutual love.
There was one circumstance in the life of Elizabeth Maynard which was
destined to influence her whole existence, and the recollection of it was
busy at her heart even now, as she sat with her fair young sister sobbing
in her
arms. She remembered when she was but nine years old how she had been one night aroused out of the sweet slumber of childhood, to go and witness the closing of her mother's eyes in a sleep yet deeper.
There is something very awful in the death-bed of one who dies of
a broken heart. Death by the judgment of Heaven is a holy, though
terrible thing; but the heart revolts from the sight, when His inscrutable
decree permits a human hand to sap the springs of a
fellow-creature's life by wanton or careless cruelty.
Elizabeth still shuddered when she thought of that white drawn face, so
young, but rowed with unavailing tears, and the pale lips from which no
murmur ever passed, now wreathing themselves into a strange smile of joy at
her release. Close to her breast, whence the breath came faint and gasping,
the mother had drawn her youngest born, as though she thought the warmth of
that little healthy frame could have driven back the chill that was
curdling round her heart.
Mr. Maynard was not there, for the dying woman, true and tender even yet
to the husband she had loved so vainly, would not let his slumbers be
disturbed, though her heart yearned to tell him how she forgave him all,
and loved him to the last.
When she saw Elizabeth by her side, she raised herself up and looked at
her with eyes gleaming, even through the shades of death, with an
expression of intense entreaty. One care--one thought of earth still
chained back that fluttering spirit yearning to depart--it was for the
little child who lay in her bosom. With the quick instinct of a mother, she
had perceived that the little Agnes would possess to the uttermost that
warm and loving disposition which had made of herself so wretched a wife.
Another might have cared little for the cold neglect which had destroyed
her; and when she thought of all the storms and dangers on that wide sea of
life where she had made so sad a shipwreck, she trembled with an agonizing
fear for the rosy happy child who slept upon her bed of death.
She had no hope but in her eldest daughter; for she knew that she left
her children friendless--not even their father could be called their
friend! For Elizabeth herself she feared nothing; the child was strangely
reserved even then, and her mother never dreamt of the strong tide of
feeling which lurked under that calm exterior, though she could duly
appreciate the superiority of intellect and force of character, which were
already so manifest.
Addressing herself far less to the child then
present with her, than to the woman she was hereafter to be, the dying mother solemnly implored of Elizabeth to look upon her infant sister henceforward as a sacred charge--so long as they both should live she besought her to watch over her, even as she would herself have done, but for the implacable death, which alone could have torn that child from her arms. She required from her especially a positive pledge that no other tie or affection hereafter springing up in her life should interfere with this her earliest and most binding duty.
Elizabeth had, as we have said, a mind beyond her years; and she knew
well that it was no light promise which she gave in that hour, and sealed
in the farewell kiss, with which she drained her mother's last breath
upon her lips. She thought of it now in the time of their common
desolation, as she looked on poor Agnes in her helpless sorrow, and lifted
up the veil of sunny hair that she might gaze into her sweet innocent face.
Deeply she resolved that, whatever might be their fate, her work and office
must ever be to guard that little one close by her side, and shield her
from all sorrow and danger.
To both these sisters, earth and the things of it were as yet all in
all. Their governess had given them what she termed a "religious
edu-
cation,"--that is, she had carefully instilled into them her own peculiar and most bounded views, on various points of completely minor importance, dwelling chiefly on the great danger of trusting to forms--whilst she furnished them with nothing else, either more or less tangible, wherein to trust;--thus, while the outward semblance of piety might now be fairly ranked amongst the accomplishments she had taught them, they knew far less of the faith, hope, and love, with which if a soul be girt it can battle with life and face eternity, than the infant who smiles in his slumbers to the unseen angelic guardians round him.
The sisters were still seated together in silence, when the door opened,
and Mr. Hardman entered with the slow solemn step suitable to this mournful
occasion.
He had come to acquaint his wards with his intentions respecting them,
immediately on returning from the funeral of their father, this being the
proper and legitimate moment for such a communication.
Mr. Hardman was systematic in everything: systematic in selfishness, in
covetousness, and in the virtues which he deemed necessary to his
respectability. He had as keen a relish for money-making as his
partner, Mr. Maynard,
but his toil and labour were to a certain end. He was a man who could judge of cause and effect, and the desire of wealth was not with him a passion absorbing in itself; he sought to make a fortune because it was his will and pleasure to enjoy the good things of life; he knew that there are none of this world's gifts which riches cannot purchase--not even the most shadowy and unsubstantial, such as the outward respect and consideration of his fellow-men.
Slowly and surely he advanced in a solid prosperity; gradually he
surrounded himself with all that his soul coveted--luxury, comfort,
ostentatious splendour for himself, his wife, and his family; and then he
set himself systematically to enjoy them according to his previous
calculations.
He was now a man of weight and influence in the city, but he continued
to pursue, with rigid firmness, the system to which he owed so much of his
advancement, namely, the inflexible determination with which, even in the
most unimportant matters, he carried out his own plans and ideas in spite
of all obstacles or opposition.
Mr. Hardman proceeded to inform his wards of the arrangement which he
and his wife had adopted for them after mature consideration.
Elizabeth was to take up her residence in his house, and become, for
some time at least, a member of his family. Agnes was to accompany one of
his own daughters to a fashionable school in Paris, there to complete her
education. With a cry almost of despair, both sisters vehemently deprecated
the idea of their separation; there were but two of them all alone in the
wide world, surely he would not part them?
Mr. Hardman was immovable, and they were too helpless to resist. He had
already two daughters older than Elizabeth, and his wife was resolutely
determined not to have the charge of more than three.
Mr. Hardman continued to acquaint them with the details of his plan as
firmly and composedly as though they had gladly acquiesced in it. His
carriage was to come for them that evening, to conduct them both to his
house--the following week Agnes was to go to Paris. He mentioned the
sums he would deduct yearly from their little fortunes as payment to
himself for their expenses; recommended them to prepare for the removal of
their effects from the house they were to enter no more, and so took his
leave.
The door had no sooner closed upon him than Agnes gave way to a burst of
the most passionate sorrow, whilst Elizabeth, whose feelings
were at all times painfully intense and strong, dwelt without scruple on the profound dislike to her guardian, which struck deep root in her heart from that hour.
After a little time, however, she tenderly raised her sister's
drooping head, and said, with an effort at calmness--
"It is of no use to struggle, dear Agnes; we must submit--we
have no home!"
"No home?" echoed Agnes. "Oh, shall we never have a
home again? shall we never find a spot where we may dwell together again,
and no one shall have power to divide us?"
"We know not what may be in reserve for us," said Elizabeth,
sadly; "but most certainly they shall not separate us long: the
time
must come when we shall be free from Mr. Hardman's tutelage, and then
I will defy the whole world to rob me of the charge which I received from
our mother on her death-bed."
"Ah! but that will not be for a long time," said Agnes,
sighing heavily. Then suddenly, with all the buoyancy of youth, her
expression changed from one of deep despondency to a hopeful joy. "I
will tell you how it must be," she exclaimed; "you must marry
very soon, and then we shall have a home together once again: you
would take me to live with you
always in your own house, would you not, dear sister?"
"I would, indeed," replied Elizabeth, with a faint smile at
the rapidity with which Agnes's ideas rose. "If ever I have a
home, it shall in truth be yours also; and you may rest assured that I will
never accept of any unless you are to share it with me."
Meanwhile, Elizabeth was profoundly un-
happy at Mr. Hardman's. His wife was what is called a strong-minded woman, fiercely intolerant of every sentiment or feeling which she did not herself possess, and which for this reason she assumed to be a weakness. Well versed in all the proprieties of life, she was rigidly implacable in her adherence to them.
One great duty she had placed before herself, the duty of respectability
and prosperity, and this she performed with unremitting and unflinching
exactitude. Of the gentle charities of home, she knew nothing; the loving
sympathy--the tender care--the anxious watchfulness over the
comforts and interests of others--still less of that true and
beautiful wisdom which remembers always that the sum of domestic happiness
is made up of seeming trifles, the little acts of self-sacrifice,
the light words and looks of every hour, and takes care to shed round them
all, the sunshine of unselfish love and kindness.
Mrs. Hardman received Elizabeth Maynard into her house because it seemed
to her that her husband had given very sufficient reasons why she should do
so; but it was no part of her business to love her, or to supply her with
that measure of affection which is as necessary to human life as refreshing
water to the traveller in the desert. Elizabeth was consigned to a
fate which a mind far more elevated than hers would have found hard to bear--desolation without solitude; she was not even allowed the freedom which might have rendered her position somewhat more tolerable.
Mrs. Hardman took the most careful and annoying cognizance of her every
word and action, and there were few which she did not find it necessary to
reprehend, in the arrogance of her own fancied perfection.
Elizabeth's sorrow for the absence of her sister she considered a
most childish and ridiculous weakness. Her grief for her father's
loss, after the period of her mourning had expired, was positively
improper, as being contrary to all laws of etiquette.
Mrs. Hardman could not compassionate the follies which circumstances had
given her no temptation to commit, and she would have spurned a penitent
from her feet with as little pity as though she was never to stand one day
in fearful need of mercy herself. Let no one think that the evil of his own
soul is to injure himself alone. These peculiarities of Mrs.
Hardman's character had a terrible effect on the fate of the orphans
committed to her care.
The first gleam of sunshine which penetrated into Elizabeth's most
cheerless existence was an event which took place about a year after her
father's death. One of Mr. Hardman's children became so seriously unwell, that change of air was pronounced necessary, and the family went to spend the summer in the country. Elizabeth had passed her whole existence in London, where the natural and moral atmosphere are both alike so foul and clouded. The fresh pure air, the bright green fields, the quiet woods, were all therefore so many sources of delight to her.
Man has a strange sympathy with nature. In the solitude which is filled
with earth's loveliness alone, he seems to lose the sentiment of
individuality, and the sting is taken from all personal sorrows; he finds
himself suddenly in blessed companionship with the glorious stars, and the
fragrant flowers, and the waving trees; and these all seem to call out to
him, saying, "Be not dismayed, though thou art sad at heart and
lonely; behold, we are the creatures of thy God, and thou mayest read in
our beauty of His goodness and loving-kindness."
To Elizabeth Maynard it seemed new life when she first learned how deep
is the eloquence of the living nature, in telling, by the things seen and
temporal, of those which are unseen and eternal.
There is not in all England a more charming spot than the village of
B--, near which her
new residence was placed. It is situated in the heart of one of the midland counties, and the scenery all around it has that fair peaceful aspect which, for the time, blots out from the memory of him who looks on it, all thoughts of the ghastly sin and woe with which this world is haunted.
There are rich pasture lands, soft and undulating as the green
hunting-fields of the Indian's Paradise; thick shadowy woods,
where the sunshine glances like hope on the soul, and the
singing-birds make merry with the long summer day; and a quiet
murmuring river, that glides along serene and bright as a good man's
life.
The village itself, although a portion of it is disfigured by the public
house, dissenting chapel, and one or two houses of unseemly pretension, is
singularly picturesque; little thatched dwellings nestling among the ivy,
inhabited, as the prettiest cottages always are, by withered old women most
quaint and simple; huge old trees filling up three quarters of the
diminutive gardens, and a broad road turning and winding amongst them,
every here and there displaying by an abrupt descent a bright glimpse of
the far-spreading landscape beyond. But the fairest object of all is
the beautiful church, with its old grey tower, and the more
modern portion lately restored, so striking from its chaste and simple elegance of architecture.
The light within it is dimmed by the thick branches of the great trees
that hang over its green and still churchyard, where the long grass waves
on the humble graves of the lowly dead. At night, when the moon is high,
there is one broad flat tombstone all wet with the evening dew, on which
its pure rays gleam with extraordinary brightness while the rest are left
in shadow, as though it would prove how even the grave can be made radiant
by a light from heaven.
But the moment when this fair English church is seen to most advantage
is at the setting of the sun, when a gush of golden light flows through it
from the west, like a path for the angels desiring to enter there; and
brightens with a warm glow the stained glass of the rich east window,
whilst through the low arch of the open doorway, the evening star may be
seen going up into heaven, there to shine with its pure pale light, like a
silver lamp burning before the shrine of the Eternal.
Mr. Hardman fixed his residence at "The Mount," a fine old
place close to the village, which was destined to become the scene of the
events here recorded.
Mr. Clayton, the vicar of the parish, was
well worthy of the pleasant spot in which his lot had been cast.
He was a noble-hearted old man; a Christian like unto those who
of old were wont to manifest their sincerity in martyrdom, and show forth
the brightness of their hopes in torture. He had sought from his youth
upward to make his life as it were a sacrament, of which the inward and
spiritual grace was faith, the outward and visible sign good works.
Pure in doctrine, uncompromising in practice, his standard of holiness
seemed to many whom he taught almost hopelessly exalted; all things were
with him resolved into the simple question of right or wrong; he never
allowed his feelings and affections, or even his compassion, to interfere
with his rigid discharge of duty. From this course, so essentially
right, he unwittingly let an error spring up which bore much
bitter fruit to himself; he learned to condemn the short-comings of
his weaker brethren too severely, trying them by the inflexible law
wherewith he judged himself.
Mr. Clayton had one only child, a son whose birth he had hailed as the
crowning joy in his cup of happiness, and at whose hand it was decreed he
should receive the full measure of his trial and tribulation in this
world.
Richard Clayton had already grown to man's
estate, and for him, even now, his father wept those tears of exceeding bitterness which we shed for the unfaithfulness, or unworthiness, of those we love. Many might have thought that he was rather one for whom a parent would have given thanks with joy, for he was kind-hearted, prepossessing in appearance, winning in manner, and generous in temper. But his father saw deeper; he knew that they who are not with Him are against Him, and he saw that other gods had dominion over his son besides the God of all purity, who requires of his children that awful obedience, that they shall be holy even as He is holy.
There is chaos on the human mind till the Spirit of God moves over it
and dwells in it; and, despite these bright flashes of goodness, like
meteor lights in the gloom, there was darkness yet on the soul of Richard
Clayton, even as once on the face of the deep.
Within the shrine of his own spirit, where the High and Lofty One that
inhabiteth eternity, and yet dwelleth with the contrite and humble, should
have reigned supreme, he had set up the idol Self, before whom he bowed
down and worshipped. It might have seemed strange that, with his
father's bright example before him, Richard Clayton should so have
loved this present world; but he was the rather scared by the severe, unqualified holiness of the service rendered by that father to his Master; he had no energy of desire, no thirsting of the soul after the living God, which constrains us to claim, without measure, the promise of the Spirit. Weak and vacillating, he would not remember that nothing is commanded which cannot be performed--that there is no limit set to the strength given wherewith to do His will. Outwardly, he had not cast off the faith of Christ; but he lacked the fortitude and courage to take up his cross and follow Him.
It had been Mr. Clayton's fondest wish, that his son should follow
his own high calling; but as Richard's character developed itself, he
not only abandoned the idea, but he would himself have refused his consent.
His child was very dear to him, but dearer still the glory of his God. Not
to such an one as Richard could he ever have allowed the inestimable
privilege of ministering in the sanctuary; but his son did not desire it,
nor was it at all necessary for him to adopt any profession, as Mr. Clayton
had succeeded to a considerable property shortly after he had obtained the
living of B--, which would ultimately revert of course to his son.
Richard remained therefore without any occupation for his time, which he
devoted chiefly to field sports and similar amusements.
Mr. and Mrs. Hardman very soon manifested a strong desire to cultivate
the acquaintance of the vicar and his family, and it was not long before
Richard became a constant visitor at the Mount.
Mr. Clayton saw them occasionally, for he considered them as his
parishioners for the time being; but they were singularly uncongenial to
himself on all points, and it was some time before he understood the motive
of his son's frequent visits to their house.
Richard had found a powerful attraction in the society of Elizabeth
Maynard. The first feeling with which she inspired him was one of profound
compassion for the position in which she was placed. He saw that her young
life was wasting away cheerless and dark, unbrightened by one ray of the
sweet human love which is the sunshine of this world, and whose gentle
influence is mighty in power to still the tempests and the cutting blasts
of sorrow which every mortal man shall meet with on his path of life. For
her, whose gaze was yet too dim to discern the glory of that
Love, to gain one hour of which an eternity of earthly care and tenderness
might well be battered, it was in truth a
bitter thing to dwell in so chilling an atmosphere.
Her vivid imagination and warm feelings, having no holier aliment
whereon to feed, were centred altogether in the joys of earth, and she felt
keenly that desolation of affection which is perhaps the saddest trial this
life can offer us.
Richard had, as we have said, much kindliness of disposition, though
weak and unstable in principle. He endeavoured, by his anxious friendship
and tender sympathy, to dispel her bitter sense of loneliness; and he
perceived that in consequence her whole heart turned irresistibly to him,
with all the concentrated strength of that tenderness which had been
allowed to flow in no other channel.
Richard knew that the true and devoted affection of such a person as
Elizabeth was by no means a gift to be despised; he could not bear to cast
it from him by indifference or contempt, as some might have done; and
before the summer was over, their marriage was announced as a settled
affair.
Richard acted on impulse, that instinctive law so attractive to our
human nature, by which no man ought to be guided; at the same time he was
too essentially selfish to have taken this step had he not been really
attached to Elizabeth. His attachment, however, was very dif-
ferent in its nature from hers, whose love was too much akin to idolatry. She little knew how frail and uncertain was that good on which she had staked the whole hopes of her existence, that should have rested rather on that sure Foundation, whereon if a man do build, his work shall abide.
Their marriage gave great satisfaction. Mr. Clayton would indeed have
preferred that the life-long companion of his son should have been a
more decided servant of the cross; but Elizabeth seemed
humble-minded and docile, well disposed to profit by the
instructions he would now have an opportunity of giving her; and he trusted
that she was one whose soul could not long remain in exile from the only
source of life and joy which can satisfy our immortality. He trusted much
to her influence with Richard, should she indeed become what he hoped; and
he gladly afforded them the means of living in comfort, by making an ample
allowance to his son.
Mr. and Mrs. Hardman were highly pleased at finding themselves thus
suddenly relieved of the care of both their wards; for Elizabeth had made
it the sole condition of her marriage that Agnes should reside with them
entirely, and that she should never be separated from her sister so long as
she remained unmarried.
To this Richard willingly agreed, and it was further decided that they
should take up their residence at "The Mount," where Agnes was
to join them after having spent some time in London with the Hardman
family.
The delight of Agnes at these arrangements was unbounded, and her
letters to her sister were full of such vivid anticipations of happiness
for the whole party, that Elizabeth trembled as she read them, with that
vague terror which arrests us when we look with too much hope into the
future.
Agnes did not leave Paris for London until the week before the wedding
took place. On the day when she was expected, Richard came to Mr.
Hardman's at Elizabeth's own request, in order that he might be
present at her sister's arrival.
They were sitting alone together in the drawing-room, when the
carriage drove to the door, and Elizabeth started to her feet that she
might hurry to welcome her. Before, however, they could even reach the
door, it burst open, and Agnes flew into the room breathless with an
overwhelming joy, and flung herself half-sobbing
half-laughing into her sister's arms. For a moment neither
spoke; the orphans, who had so long been all in all to each other, were
together once more, and their happiness was too
great for utterance. When at length Agnes disengaged herself from her sister's embrace, Elizabeth almost started in astonishment at the change which an interval of nearly two years had made upon her. Agnes was now nearly eighteen, and the childlike loveliness which had always characterised her had ripened into a most winning beauty. She looked so radiant and joyous, that her entrance was like the passing of a sunbeam into the room; her countenance had retained the soft trusting expression which formed its greatest charm, and her eyes had still their candid and innocent gaze.
Elizabeth turned with a proud delight to present her to Richard, but she
stopped short suddenly when she saw his face, whilst an indescribable pang
shot through her heart;--her future husband was standing with his
eyes fixed on Agnes, gazing at her with a look of the most warm and
unqualified admiration, a look such as had never been bestowed on herself!
At a moment like this, one of a temper less jealous and suspicious than
Elizabeth Maynard would never have dreamt of bestowing a thought on this
trifling circumstance; but she was, as we have said, peculiarly sensitive
in disposition; her affection for Richard Clayton was so absorbing that her
whole heart and mind were bound up in it, and she had not a thought
unconnected
with him; she felt indeed that it had most utterly superseded all other sentiments and feelings, for at that moment she could have wished that the fairer and younger sister (her own dear Agnes!) had not been standing by her side, thus to rob her of a single look from one so passionately loved.
But in another instant she repelled this unworthy feeling almost with
horror, for she remembered how, in a very few days, Richard Clayton would
hold for Agnes Maynard the sacred name of brother. They twain
were about to be made by a most holy ordinance ONE
FLESH, and from that hour her sister must be
his sister also, in the sight of God and man. Her cheek burned
with a flush of shame, to think that she should have harboured for one
moment what was in truth an unholy thought; and taking Richard by the hand,
she drew him towards Agnes, and prayed him to love their sister dearly for
her sake.
Richard welcomed her frankly and warmly by that title, telling her, with
the utmost kindness in his look and tone, that she must teach him the
duties of a brother, as he had never known that gentle tie, which is the
source of so much true and enduring happiness on earth. He was in fact
greatly interested in the orphan sister of his future wife, for Elizabeth
had not
failed to tell him of the solemn charge she had received from her dying mother; and the impression made upon his mind by the description of that scene was so great that he was now equally determined with herself that Agnes should find a happy home in his house. Meanwhile Agnes, who was always won in a moment by kindness, put her hand into his with a bright gay smile, and inwardly resolved that she would do all in her power to please the husband of her dear Elizabeth.
Mr. and Mrs. Clayton enjoyed the utmost esteem and consideration among
the inhabitants of B-- and the vicinity, whilst their sister, Agnes
Maynard, was a universal favourite. Her peculiarly attractive appearance,
sweet disposition, and joyousness of spirit, had won the affection of all
to whom she was known. She was at least beyond a doubt most
truly happy: happy in the society of her sister, and in the warm
friendship of her brother-in-law, whom she had sought to
propitiate by every means in her power, in order that the harmony of their
domestic life might be completed.
The birth of a daughter had been no small
addition to the happiness of Elizabeth and Richard; more especially to the latter, who felt for this little infant all that passionate tenderness which a young father so often feels for his first-born child. He was also at this time highly gratified to find that his popularity was increasing considerably; he had acquired greater weight and influence as a married man. His wife and her beautiful sister were much sought after and respected by the leading families of the county, and he soon found that he might take a high position in the neighbourhood.
And yet, surrounded with all these outward blessings, Elizabeth Clayton
was very wretched. Her father-in-law had in vain endeavoured
to draw the wandering gaze of her dimmed eyes upward to that glorious Star,
on which if a man look steadily, he shall learn to take no heed of the
mortal tempests roaring round his head, or the fading of all mortal joys;
he had found an insurmountable barrier to all his efforts in the
overwhelming and almost idolatrous love which she bore to her husband. The
love of Him, who first loved us, alone should reign supreme in the immortal
soul, and all other feelings be the rather called fourth by it, as flowers
give out fragrance when the sun shines on them; but if an earthly
affection, however lawful in itself, be permitted to supersede it, thereby
becoming
a sinful indulgence, then does the holier love fade and perish away before that engrossing influence, like the pure sunlight when the night sets in.
Day and night, waking and sleeping, Elizabeth had no thought but for her
husband; watching his every word and look, thinking she never could do
enough to please him, and harassing both herself and him by exacting an
amount of attention and tenderness which she was by no means justified in
expecting. The one overpowering idea which was always present in her mind,
was the conviction that his attachment for her fell far short of her own in
depth and fervour.
She was, in fact, very right in her opinion, but this was no excuse for
the unreasonable manner in which she wearied him with her repining at his
coldness. She should have remembered that there is but one affection that
can be of any real value to those who inspire it, it is that love, noble
and disinterested, which is pure from the slightest taint of selfishness;
which has for its sole object and desire the happiness of those on whom it
is bestowed. She should never have allowed her own feelings and desires to
interfere in the most minute particular with his comfort. If she discovered
that her presence wearied him, she should have
left him with a smile, and with a smile been ready to return to him if he wished it. If he seemed happier while neglecting her, cheerfully she should have submitted to his neglect, and striven only to prevent his home from being ever darkened by a look of sorrow on her face, or its quiet disturbed by a word of discontent. But Elizabeth had sought no other happiness for herself than that which she derived from this affection, and therefore it was profoundly selfish. She was jealous of every thing and every one on whom her husband bestowed a look; and jealous even of the necessary business which took him from her side.
It was not unnatural that Richard, annoyed and often irritated at her
unceasing watchfulness, should gladly turn from her to seek the society of
Agnes, whose gaiety and light-heartedness rendered her so pleasing a
contrast to the anxious care-worn wife. He never acted under the
guidance of principle, but he habitually obeyed a law scarce less exacting,
for he invariably followed the bent of his own inclination, without pausing
to scrutinize his motives, or to examine into the possible result of his
actions. It therefore never occurred to him, that it must have cost poor
Elizabeth many a bitter pang to see him so openly preferring the society of
her sister; while Agnes, with that careless egotism
to which the young and the happy so often yield themselves unconsciously, was ever ready to enjoy with him the long walks and rides which Elizabeth's enfeebled health prevented her from attempting.
Thus, while to a casual observer all was bright and prosperous in the
lives of the Clayton family, there was ripening in the heart of her who
should have been the happiest, one of those dark tragedies which often run
their course in the narrow compass of an individual mind alone.
Soon, however, the anxieties and fears of Elizabeth took a new shape.
Her health began to fail her altogether. She had reduced herself to a very
weak and nervous state, solely by distress of mind and harassing
annoyances; and now the conviction had settled with a dull dead weight upon
her heart, that she should not survive the birth of her second child.
This idea was in reality but an imagination springing from her morbid
state of mind, for which there was not the slightest foundation; but the
conviction, deeply rooted, ate like a canker into her soul. It was not
death which she dreaded, not the coffin and the shroud; nor yet, chained to
the dust as she was by the ties of earth, the awful judgment to come; but
it was the horror of the dread which filled her
heart night and day, that when she lay cold and helpless in her grave, Richard would find some unknown stranger, fairer and dearer, to take her place in his love and in his home. To a mind like Elizabeth's this thought was torture; it haunted her like a spectral phantom: she had loved him too exclusively when living, to give him up even when she was dead; and she longed, had it been possible, to have held him still within the stiff cold arms from which the warmth of life was fled. She had ever before her eyes the terrible image of one more loved perhaps, who should dwell in his house as she had dwelt, and walk by his side as she had walked, honoured, cherished as his wife, the mother of his children. This vision of her brain took a thousand agonizing forms. Sometimes she fancied that through the mould, and the dust, and the coffin-lid, his voice would reach her if he spoke in accents of endearment to another; that, she should even hear the tramping of their feet round her dark abode as they walked through the beautiful church-yard, too happy in their mutual affection to think of her who mouldered there so lonely! And her child, too--her little fragile, gentle Mary, was she to be delivered to the cold unloving care of a stepmother!
Over these ideas the jealous heart of Elizabeth
brooded with all the strength of her diseased fancy; but suddenly, whilst she speculated on the probable results of her death, a thought occurred to her which brought with it at once the most complete consolation.
The sincere attachment of Richard to their sister Agnes became the
source of her utmost joy and thankfulness; he would never consent to part
with her sister, now become in affection, as well as in actual fact, his
own also; he would never send her away to a miserable and cheerless
existence with the Hardmans: no, Agnes would remain with him to take
carevof her little niece, of whom she was devotedly fond; and so long as
she continued unmarried, she would prevent; the possibility of another wife
entering into the house of which she would be the beloved inmate. This idea
gave a totally new current to Elizabeth's thoughts; it was like balm
to her wounded spirit; she could look forward with perfect calm to her
death, when she felt convinced that, so far from her place being filled by
a rival, Richard and Agnes would remain alone together to remember her, and
talk of her often with unchanging love, whilst her little Mary would find
in the young aunt the same tender and watchful friend which she had herself
been to Agnes.
Elizabeth had never concealed from either
Richard or Agnes how near a close she believed her life to be, although her natural delicacy of feeling had restrained her from telling them of the dread which rendered this conviction one of such agony to her.
Now, however, she repeatedly implored of them both to promise her that
Agnes should always remain with her brother-in-law; urging as
her reason for wishing it, that to her alone would she commit the care of
her little daughter, and the new-born babe if it survived.
Both were very willing to promise their poor Elizabeth all she desired,
but neither of them had the slightest apprehension for her life. Their
medical adviser was too skilful a physician not to know that her fears were
perfectly groundless, and he had completely reassured Agnes on the subject;
they therefore contented themselves with soothing her in the mean time, and
looked forward anxiously to the period when all anxiety should cease.
Such was the state of matters at "The Mount," when Elizabeth
took her seat one fine evening in the early summer at the
drawing-room window, which was thrown wide open that she might enjoy
the soft mild air; directly below it was a smooth piece of turf, on which
Richard was slowly walking to and fro in conversation with his
father's Curate.
Mr. Lambert was one of those characters which are, too unfortunately,
rare in this world, but of which alone shall doubtless be composed the
population of that Holy City, where nothing that defileth shall in any wise
enter in: with a powerful mind, and many a noble intellectual
quality, he had sought and attained to the innocency of life and humility
of heart of a little child, who once was set as an example to the gifted of
this earth.
From the hour when he had received the awful commission for the work and
office of a priest in the Church of God, he had, with determinate
resolution, set the seal of "Holiness to the Lord" on every
action of his future life. Severe and unflinching towards himself in
following out this difficult course, he was ever most gentle and merciful
to others; winning back to the old paths with sweet persuasive accents
those who had erred and strayed, and dealing with penitents in the spirit
of that unutterably blessed and touching declaration which has been as the
words of life to many a sinking soul--" Neither do I condemn
thee."
Notwithstanding his youth, there was a peculiar calm and dignity in his
manner which won the respect of all whom he approached; though few would
have suspected, from his habitual silence and reserve, that there was in
his cha-
racter an under current of profound and intense feeling, which he seldom if ever displayed. Careless and indifferent as Richard Clayton was, he could not but admire the pure and exalted views which raised this man so far above himself; and he was always more ready to listen to Mr. Lambert's remonstrances than to the sterner warnings of his father, whose faith and obedience shone forth rather in the severity of holiness than in its beauty.
Their conversation was distinctly audible to Elizabeth as she sat at
the window, and she soon became so deeply and painfully interested in it
that she forgot to ascertain whether they were aware of her vicinity.
Richard had asked Mr. Lambert what was the cause of a tumult which he had
witnessed that morning at the church door, as he passed through the
village.
Mr. Lambert answered that it had originated in one of those distressing
cases which were often a source of so much annoyance to the clergy. Two
persons had come before him to be married; they did not belong to this
parish of B--, and the banns had been published elsewhere;
consequently, it was not until they were actually within the church that he
discovered the relationship in which they already stood to one another. The
woman was sister to the former wife of the man.
"Of course I refused to marry them," he added quietly.
"Then you share my father's opinion," said Richard.
"I think him quite absurdly rigid on this point. I cannot coincide in
the strong objection which is raised against it by so many. Such a marriage
might often be a very convenient arrangement."
"And a most unhallowed alliance," said Mr. Lambert,
warmly.
"You will find few to look upon it in that light," replied
Richard; "think how frequently the connexion is made without the
slightest scruple."
"There is nothing so common in this world as evil," said Mr.
Lambert, with quiet emphasis; "you may give men authority to commit
the greatest crimes with impunity, if they are to find their license for it
in the practice of others." He paused, for Richard's
peculiar position rendered this a subject scarce fit for discussion.
Richard, however, would not let the matter drop till he had very clearly
made known his own opinion; he spoke much of the advantage which might
result from such an arrangement, in procuring for the children of the
deceased wife so kind and natural a protectress as their aunt.
Mr. Lambert replied, that, were the matter viewed as it ought to be,
there could be no more reason why the sister of the mother should not
remain to take care of the children than the sister of the father himself.
Even on the score of expediency alone, he could show the incalculable evil
of such connexions, bringing distrust and misery and confusion into the
nearest and dearest relations of life; but it was on a far higher ground
that he would denounce them, that of being altogether repugnant to the will
of God; a fact which might be proved from Scripture, and which had been set
forth by the authority of the Church in all ages. It was, in fact, a
putting asunder of those whom God had joined in the holy tie, whereby he
declared that man and wife were to be one flesh: if there were any
meaning in those words at all, the relations of the one must become the
relations of the other also, and the sister-in-law be in the
sight of heaven counted as the sister in blood.
Richard could not answer this argument, though he still held to his own
opinion; and after a few more remarks from both, the conversation changed.
But Elizabeth Clayton had heard enough, and too much.
Richard little knew what deadly power there had been in his words so
carelessly spoken. He did not see, as his voice died away, how a figure
rushed from that darkened room with hurried steps and suffocated breath; he did not hear how the bolt was drawn across the door of the apartment above, by a hand that trembled till it was well nigh palsied; nor the dull heavy fall upon the ground, of a form convulsed by its fierce mental agony.
One thought alone was present in the mind of Elizabeth Clayton--a
thought so torturing and unsupportable that she strove to escape from it
with that impotent frenzy which in its full development drives men to the
awful crime of self-destruction. She had
a RIVAL in her
SISTER! The wife whom she had dreaded would
supplant her after her death, would be her,
who for two years past had called her husband--brother! It was an
idea too horrible even to have entered into her mind, had it not been
literally forced upon her by the words of Richard himself.
Elizabeth had not the strong religious principles which induced Mr.
Lambert to view it with such warm indignation, but she had that which in
this instance supplied their place--the instinctive delicacy of
feeling with which a pure mind must revolt from a transaction so opposed to
all that is just and holy. What a horrible shade was now cast over
the past intercourse of her husband and sister, and the happy
familiarity she had herself loved to promote between them! It maddened her even to think of the result which would probably follow on her own death. Instead of living to watch over her children and remember her with unchanged affection, they would remain together in a union condemned of God, and reprobated even by the world itself.
Had she then, when she gave her orphan sister a home, been but preparing
for herself a rival, who would hereafter blot out her very memory from the
heart of the husband she loved so well? Oh! surely she had in truth been
nourishing a viper in her bosom: but at least it should be so no
longer; she would not sit idly by and see another preparing, under such
false pretences, to rob her of the love which she would have had her own
even in the grave. She started up--Elizabeth was ever violent in her
resolutions as well as in her feelings--she went to the door, scarce
knowing what she did, strong in one determination only--that Agnes
should not stay another day in the house, to rise up between her and the
husband whose affection was her lawful right.
Suddenly, as she was about to draw the bolt, she started and staggered
back; a vision passed before her of a scene never forgotten. She saw the
pale, death-stricken face; the uplifted
hands of the expiring mother, clasped in passionate entreaty to her the daughter! She heard again that voice, coming so faint and thrilling over the cold lips--
"Elizabeth, Elizabeth! I trust to you alone! promise--swear
that you will never desert my child; swear that no dearer tie shall ever
induce you to forsake your charge!" And she heard, as it were, the
echo of her own voice when she answered, child as she was, with such a
solemn firmness--
" Mother, fear not; I promise--I
swear!"
And was it thus she was about to redeem that pledge given to the
dead--to fulfil that oath administered on a death-bed?--by
driving forth Agnes, that mother's youngest darling, from her house
and home; casting her out into that dangerous and chilling world, where she
would be so friendless and alone!
There was a sudden revulsion of feeling in the breast of Elizabeth; a
new horror rose out of the idea of this unhallowed marriage. Was Agnes, the
gentle Agnes, so fair and joyous, thereby to become a being unworthy of the
favour of heaven, and an outcast even from society? Was the sister for whom
she had indulged in so many a bright ambitious dream, reserved for such a
fate as this?--a wife disowned both by the laws of God and man!
Elizabeth flung herself down once more with a sort of powerless despair.
Which of these two was she to hate the most, whom, until now, she had so
dearly loved--the husband, who, by his selfish act, might blight and
blacken the whole existence of her only sister; or the sister, who, under
that sacred name, had stolen into the husband's heart, to dwell happy
in his love when she was mouldering forgotten in the dust? Her
thoughts became confused--her senses seemed abandoning her--the
shock had been so sudden. She had never before contemplated the possibility
of such a marriage. She had believed it forbidden by all laws, Divine or
human; and now, not only was it brought suddenly before her as a matter of
frequent occurrence, but there had been an energy and an anxiety in
Richard's manner of expressing himself, which proved that, however
unconsciously, it was yet for his own sake that he sought so earnestly to
prove the truth of his assertions.
There is a peculiar faculty in the human mind, which sometimes causes
it, when a new and absorbing idea is first presented to it, at once to
grasp it in its full extent, in all its bearings--past, present, and
future. Elizabeth's vivid imagination would not allow her to find
consolation in the great uncertainty of the evil she dreaded; it carried
her on at once to antici-
pate the marriage of her husband and sister as the infallible result of her own death,--now, as she believed, so near at hand. With her face buried in her hands, she lay on the ground, wrestling with the great agony of all the contending feelings which this terrible conviction had aroused within her.
Meanwhile Richard and Agnes sat together in the drawing-room
below. "Where is Elizabeth?" said Agnes, at last; "I have
not seen her at all this evening."
"I really do not know," said Richard, indifferently;
"perhaps she has gone to lie down. She fancies herself fatigued now,
whenever she has made the slightest exertion. Do go and sing to me,
Agnes," he continued, flinging aside his book; "this is just
the hour when I can best enjoy music."
Agnes complied, and in a few minutes Elizabeth could distinguish,
through the choking sobs that were bursting from her own lips, the sweet
tones of her sister's voice, as she sang, one after another, the
favourite songs which her husband most preferred.
"It is strange that Elizabeth does not come," said Agnes,
after a time; "she never goes to spend the evening in her room
without telling us at least. I must go and see where she is."
"Some fancy!" said Richard, in a tone of
irritation. "You had better leave her to herself. I wish she had your sweet temper, Agnes."
Agnes made no answer: it had often seemed strange to her that
Elizabeth was not in truth more uniformly happy, with so many blessings
round her. She left the room in search of her sister; but in an instant she
returned, with an agitated step, and a look of terror on her face, usually
so bright and sunny.
"Dear Richard, come quickly!" she exclaimed; "I quite
fear that Elizabeth is very ill: her door is locked, and she made no
answer when I called, but I can hear her groaning in so strange a
manner!"
Richard started from his seat, and bounded up stairs; Agnes followed.
They knocked at the door, and called in vain; but they could hear moan
succeeding moan. Alarmed to the last degree, Richard exerted all his
strength, and burst open the door. The violent shock, and the stunning
noise it occasioned, put the finishing stroke to the agitation of
Elizabeth's nerves and the confusion of her mind. Her husband rushed
in: all that he saw was her form stretched on the ground, trembling
and convulsed. He flung himself on his knees beside her, and lifted up her
head; whilst Agnes, kneeling close to him, drew back the long
tangled hair that hung over her sister's livid face. Elizabeth opened her eyes: they were full of the most wild and ghastly expression. A terrible fear shot through the mind of Richard that she had suddenly become insane. There was, in truth, a sort of chaos in her thoughts; but one idea remained too fearfully distinct.
Her gaze fell upon Agnes, and her heart revolted with unnatural horror
against her dear and only sister. Half frantic, she started up: with
the strength almost of a maniac, she seized Agnes by the arm, which she had
rested on the shoulder of Richard, and flung her back with such force, that
she fell headlong against the wall. Richard uttered a cry of terror; he
really thought she had killed her. He flew to Agnes, and raised her in his
arms. She was only stunned, not hurt. She looked up in his face, and
smiled, to reassure him. Elizabeth gazed upon them for a moment, as though
her quivering frame were turning into stone. Then, stretching out her hands
towards her husband, she exclaimed, in words which he then attributed to
the ravings of delirium, but which years after haunted him with a fearful
meaning, "Oh, Richard, Richard! she is your sister--your
sister--your sister!"
There was something so horrible in the tone in which she reiterated
these words, that Agnes
flew towards her, and strove to pass her arms round her, calling her by every endearing name. But Elizabeth disengaged herself from her embrace, and, sinking on the sofa, she began to utter shriek on shriek, evidently in great bodily agony.
In another hour she was alarmingly ill, and before morning a little
feeble child had been brought prematurely into the world, in which it
seemed too fragile to exist; and the life of the mother was despaired
of.
seemed alive at all but for the wild restless gaze of her sleepless eyes. There was in them a terrible expression of anxiety and misery, which told but too eloquently of the fierce human anguish with which that silent sufferer was wrestling.
It was a horrible thing to see one about to enter into those habitations
which are everlasting, whether for good or ill, thus concentrating all her
expiring faculties, not on earnest repentance, but on the perishing remnant
of the mortal life that now might be reckoned by days and hours. She seemed
ever struggling madly to express some one last wish, as though her soul
could not go forth till it had uttered certain words; but they could
comprehend nothing from her inarticulate efforts;--it was to Agnes
that she strove to address herself principally, though also to Richard, and
they very naturally concluded that, her whole anxiety was for her children
only--that all her endeavours were to make her sister understand that
she committed them to her care. Impressed with this idea, Agnes tried to
soothe and comfort her, by repeating again and again to her that she
understood her wishes, and that she would never leave her children, but
that she would make it the business of her life to watch over them and
devote herself entirely to them.
Richard also, in the same belief, assured her repeatedly that she might
be at peace with regard to the poor little infants whom she must leave
behind in this chill world. He would never allow Agnes to leave
him--she should stay with him to tend and care for them--they
should be consigned completely to her charge.
Those promises which, but for the one horrible idea that now possessed
the mind of Elizabeth, would have been to her so inexpressibly soothing and
consolatory, served only to madden and torture her as she lay there in her
helpless weakness, unable to tell them that they offered for her comfort
the very assurance she most dreaded.
Though not without hope, it was yet a death-bed most unquiet and
unblest. Could the dying woman have been altogether disengaged from the
engrossing thoughts of this world, it would doubtless have been a season of
inestimable profit to her departing soul, for Mr. Lambert attended her
assiduously, labouring with unwearied efforts to draw the poor straying
sheep in safety to the heavenly fold. But he saw almost with terror that
she let the redeemless hours pass recklessly away, with scarce a feeling
but for the inward conflict of the heart, whose beating was so soon to
cease for ever.
Her father-in-law, Mr. Clayton, had been so
painfully affected by the state in which he found her, that he had been obliged to relinquish the task of ministering to her in her last hours to his curate; and Mr. Lambert, well accustomed as he was to scenes of a similar nature, found it a most difficult duty. There was something in her mind which he could not fathom, whether anxiety for her children, or, as he was inclined to believe, some deeper and more envenomed cause. But he saw that it rendered nearly powerless all his efforts to awaken her to a more earnest consideration of the awful realities to which she was hurrying so swiftly. His voice, even when hallowed by the Name in which alone is Life Eternal, fell unheeded on the ears that were ever straining to catch the import of the words that passed between Richard and Agnes. It was well nigh in vain that he held up the Majesty of Justice as developed in the Mercy of the Cross, before the soul that vibrated between those feelings ever contending fearfully--the bitter jealousy against the once loved sister, for the sake of the yet dearer husband; or, when some kind act of the childhood's companion recalled the old affection, the horror akin to hate of the husband, who might destroy the bright prospects of that tender friend's young life.
But the first feeling predominated; and often
when Mr. Lambert would have joined her feeble hands in the attitude of supplication, she strove rather to use their failing strength in driving from her bed of death the sister whom she had caressed so often; or, when he endeavoured to pray with her, if he saw that she was really moved by the awful truths he brought before her, a spasm of horror would pass over her face at sight of these two, who were kneeling there side by side. Ultimately Mr. Lambert thought he had reason to hope that this poor sufferer, so bitterly tried in her dying hours, had yet been mercifully dealt with. There was often a look of most earnest pleading and of deepest penitence in her upraised eyes, which led him to trust that this tempest-driven soul had in truth flown to the One True Refuge, although its earthly anguish and anxiety had so sadly interfered with its last solemn duties.
It was a lovely June morning,--the sky was bright, as though it
never had a cloud, and the earth radiant, as though it knew no sin. It was
just such a day, when it would have been a glorious thing to have seen a
ransomed spirit burst the bonds of its clay, and fly from this land of
perishing beauty and fading sunbeams up to the fields of light above, where
the Sun of Righteousness for ever shines.
All those who had any claim on the affection
of Elizabeth Clayton were gathered round her, for her last hour was come. They had placed her little children in her arms, and a few bitter tears, the first she had shed, wet her cold cheek when she felt the little caressing hands passed round her neck. Yet she looked on them with a strange unnatural longing, as though she desired to convey them with her to the grave. Soon the one thought, which had obscured for her the glory of eternity, deadened the mother's heart within her. She signed to them to take away the smiling infants, for they intercepted her gaze upon those two standing as chief mourners side by side, whom to the last she must watch in her impotent jealousy. Her eyes were glazing fast--the chill of death was creeping through her stiffening members to her pallid breast; but she only felt that the struggle was at its climax--that in a few minutes more she would be powerless to say the words with which she sought to separate them, to interdict their unhallowed union, that now came choking to the lips too palsied to articulate.
She struggled fearfully for utterance; it was so terrible to see her
efforts that Agnes sank upon her knees beside her, and clasping her cold
hands, exclaimed--"Dear, dear Elizabeth, I know what you would
say, it is for your children; fear nothing, they shall be safe and
happy in my keeping; I will be as a mother to them."
"Yes," said Richard, bending over her; "my poor wife,
be at rest; do not doubt our love and care; together we will live only to
watch over those dear children."
Some dreadful emotion seemed to shake the whole frame of Elizabeth; with
a convulsive effort she half raised herself from her pillow; her eyes
glanced with the wildest eagerness from the one to the other; her pale lips
moved, and they could distinguish the faltering words,
"Agnes--not--marry;" it was all they could hear, but
Richard anxiously exclaimed, imagining he had understood at last the
meaning of her efforts: --"Agnes, she fears you will marry
and leave the poor children, but you will not--you will stay with
them."
"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Agnes, sobbing; "I will, indeed;
I will never leave this house; I promise it to you, my dearest
sister." The gleam faded from the despairing eyes of the dying
woman--an expression of utter hopelessness settled on her
features--they had misunderstood her to the last! It was all over
now: it was too late--she could do no more; life was ebbing; all
things had grown indistinct around her; she must resign herself to the
grave, and them to their unblest union. She
sank back; the thought was not in her soul, that He would remember her when He came to His kingdom; or, that He would be merciful to her a sinner; but only the horror of the compact which it seemed to her they had sealed at her very bed of death. She made one feeble effort to turn away her face from both when they stooped to kiss her, and so expired.
Mr. Clayton's views respecting such alliances as that, the very
thought of which had terrified Elizabeth into her grave, were so strong and
decisive, that it never occurred to him to suppose that Agnes could ever be
considered in any other light than as the sister of his son. He, therefore,
felt it to be most desirable, both for the children and Richard, that she
should be placed at the head of his establishment under that title; an
arrangement which would, in truth, be highly advantageous
in almost all similar cases, had no idea of an unlawful union between persons so connected ever been admitted into the minds of men.
None of the parties concerned in this affair had, however, in appearance
at least, the most distant idea of any such alliance; and, consequently, no
obstacle seemed to exist against a plan in all other respects so very
suitable.
Mr. Hardman was quite satisfied that an arrangement which met with the
sanction of the vicar of B--, must be perfectly right, and he imagined
that he had gathered from Mr. Clayton's letter that Agnes and his son
were to reside with himself. In this Mr. Hardman was altogether mistaken,
as Richard had no intention of quitting The Mount. But this erroneous idea
satisfied the demands of Mrs. Hardman's implacable propriety, and she
thankfully consented that Agnes should remain at a comfortable distance
from her own less attractive daughter.
Richard Clayton was, during some time, completely absorbed in grief for
the loss of his wife. There are few who can bear unmoved, that the heart
which has loved them best on earth is cold for ever, however little they
may have valued the affection while it lasted. And his sorrow was by no
means unmingled with remorse. He could not endure the society
of any one excepting Agnes, with whom he could talk of his Elizabeth, and who in voice and manner so often reminded him of her. Agnes, deeply moved at his distress, and feeling that there was a bond between them in the love they had borne to the departed, devoted herself to the task of soothing and consoling him. Her efforts were not without success; she soon removed the first bitterness of his regrets, and, after a time, Richard could not but feel that his home was still a most happy one. He found himself carefully surrounded with all the comforts and elegance which a woman alone can give to the details of domestic life. His children were cared for, his household well arranged; and when he returned in the evening, wearied with his day's sport, he never failed to be received with a bright smile of welcome, and to find many little preparations for his coming:--the chair drawn towards the fire, the new book placed beside it, and other marks of attention to his wishes, which, trifling in themselves, yet tend wonderfully to promote the happiness of each day as it passes.
Agnes herself, though she never ceased to regret her sister, gradually
recovered her natural cheerfulness and gaiety of heart. Occupation is the
sovereign remedy for despondency, and she had but little time now to brood
over the past. Full of the sad enthusiasm with which we seek
to fulfil our duties to the dead, she gave herself up almost entirely to the care of her sister's children, both of whom required much of her time and attention. The little Mary was a sweet engaging child, timid and sensitive, and displaying, even at that early age, all her mother's acuteness of feeling; she and her brother were the only relations Agnes now had in the world, and she loved her little niece with the most passionate affection. Mary continued to regret her mother with a tenacity of recollection very uncommon in so young a child, so that Agnes spent many hours of the day in endeavouring to amuse her.
The infant, for whom this world's miseries had commenced almost
with his first breath, was a still greater anxiety to his young aunt.
During his mother's illness he had been little attended to, and now
he was struggling for the life that seemed to have so slight a hold on his
little feeble frame. Richard's physician told him very plainly that
the most constant watchfulness and attention alone could preserve an
existence so precarious; and he implored of Agnes, almost with tears, to
devote herself to this arduous task; for he had long desired most earnestly
to have a son, and he could not bear to think that the gift had only been
given to be resumed.
Thus she had much to occupy her thoughts;
and Mr. Clayton not unfrequently employed her in attending on the poor of his parish. He was anxious, by making her acquainted with the sober realities of life, to induce her to take a more serious and practical view of our condition in this world, and of the duties incumbent on us all. There was a certain taint of false poetical sentiment and overstrained romance in the character of Agnes Maynard, which she owed no doubt to the influence of her Parisian teachers, and which Mr. Clayton felt to be sadly at variance with the rigid self-denial and invincible holiness that ought to control the actions of a Christian in all the circumstances of life.
She seemed to think that the unbounded indulgence of her feelings at all
times was almost a matter of duty; and her best actions were performed, not
because they were right, but because they were generally
agreeable to her naturally sweet disposition.
She visited the poor, not from that blessed motive once given for the
performance of this duty, which makes it the highest privilege on earth,
but simply because it really gave her pleasure to relieve their sufferings;
and even her attention to the little children was the mere natural result
of her fond regrets for their dead mother, and was never viewed by her as a
means given to her whereby she might serve her Master. The manner in which she devoted herself to them however, won for her the esteem and admiration of her acquaintances in the neighbourhood of B--; and it became the fashion to seek her friendship. This was extremely agreeable both to Richard and herself, for they were alike fond of society and amusement, having but few resources in themselves. They failed not to place the highest value on the favour and consideration of those whom wealth or rank seemed to render desirable friends; and Richard especially, who fervently loved this world, was most ambitious of its honours. Their happiness was, therefore, increased in no small degree by the position they had now attained in society, and for considerably more than a year they lived in the enjoyment of the greatest ease and comfort. This state might have continued long, and their contentment would doubtless but have increased as they saw the children improving in health, and Richard acquiring great influence in the county; but they were doomed to suffer by that fatal laxity of principle, which has caused it to be considered as a possibility in Christian England that a man should become the husband of one who is virtually his sister!
No one had ever dreamt of questioning the
propriety of Agnes's residence with her brother-in-law. Mr. Clayton would as soon have thought of objecting to the presence of his own daughter in the house of his son. But there are to be found in every neighbourhood persons whose business it seems to be to attend to the affairs of their neighbours--who occupy themselves in arranging the plans of others, and prosecute their unjustifiable interference with the ostensible motive of offering well meant advice and judicious kindness. B-- was infested by a lady of this description. Mrs. Sharp was the wife of a lawyer, who resided in the village because it placed him at a convenient distance from an estate which he managed in the absence of the proprietor. She was a person of a busy, active disposition, and a perfectly vacant mind. She took a singularly microscopic view of those things which are alone of any importance in this world, whilst it was her delight to magnify trifles, especially if they were sources of annoyance, into matters of weight and consequence. She loved to dig out all those little evils of life which men wisely seek to bury in oblivion, and make their sting be thoroughly felt and understood; and she had a sort of spasmodic irritability of temper, which made it impossible for her to endure quietly the resignation or cheerfulness of her friends. Being
excessively ambitious and very vain, she soon found that her standing in society was not by any means what she could have wished, and she therefore betook herself to that peculiar species of self-aggrandizement, which consisted in the depreciation and abuse of others, so as to produce a comparison favourable to herself; clearly believing, that while enlarging on the faults and follies of her friends, her own virtues grew brighter in proportion. Mr. Sharp systematically encouraged her to take an active and engrossing interest in the affairs of her neighbours, as he thereby diverted her energy of mind and warmth of eloquence from himself and his proceedings.
Thus Mrs. Sharp, with her inquisitive eyes, her busy tongue, and her
spiteful disposition, was an object of terror to the whole
neighbourhood--from the vicar, who generally saw her enter the
cottages of his parishioners as soon as he quitted them, in order to learn
what he had been saying, and counteract its effects, down to the little
village girl, who as required to enter into minute details respecting the
quality of her Sunday dinner, and other such interesting particulars. This
lady Agnes Maynard had the misfortune to offend. Mrs. Sharp had been
extremely anxious to cultivate her acquaintance when she found how intimate
she had be-
come with the leading families of the country; and Agnes, who was at all times accustomed to think far more of her own pleasure than of the courtesies of life, had not scrupled, as she thought her a particularly disagreeable person, to repel her advances in a very marked and humiliating manner. This slight was never forgiven or forgotten by Mrs. Sharp; she cherished a sense of injury with all the tenacity of a little mind; and from that day it became one of the chief objects of her existence to find some means of indulging her deep-rooted and bitter dislike of Agnes. It was so, perhaps, unconsciously to herself; for Mrs. Sharp, like most people, was well grounded in the art of self-deceit; and she persuaded herself that it was a laudable zeal for the well-being of society, which induced her to spread many evil reports respecting the residence of Agnes Maynard with her brother-in-law, instead of a mean and ungenerous desire of revenge.
It so chanced, that in the course of the second year after the death of
Elizabeth Clayton, Mrs. Sharp went for a few days to London. One of her
first proceedings on arriving there was to call on Mrs. Hardman, as she had
long looked forward with a keen relish to some favourable opportunity of
stirring up that respectable lady to a virtuous indignation against her
ward, for
whose conduct Mr. Hardman was to a certain degree responsible.
Mrs. Sharp had been acquainted with the family during their six
months' residence at the Mount; and the first polite speeches were
scarcely over, when she proceeded gradually to insinuate what was in fact
the real object of her visit. She began by looking fixedly and with an air
of profound compassion on Mrs. Hardman, and having given vent to several
heavy sighs, remarked that she was thankful to see her in tolerable
spirits.
"I believe my spirits are generally very good," said Mrs.
Hardman, who sat stiff and impassible as usual. "No one can accuse me
of being variable: my temper is even and equable, as it ought to
be."
"Ah, well! you are a very strong-minded person, I
know," said Mrs. Sharp; "still I must say I expected to see you
a little moved by such a trial."
"Mrs. Sharp, may I ask to what you allude?" inquired Mrs.
Hardman. "Trials I have, no doubt, such as I believe no one but a
person of my strength of character could have undergone; but I am not aware
that you are acquainted with them: they are buried in my own
bosom."
"My dear Mrs. Hardman, I can assure you
this one is not buried anywhere," exclaimed Mrs. Sharp; "no one talks of anything else at B--. It was only the other day that I met Lady C-- on the road, and she stopped her carriage, and put her head out of the window, (you know I am very intimate with Lady C--) and she held up her hands just in this way, and said,--"Well, Mrs. Sharp, this is a sad affair, only to think that Mrs. Hardman should have sanctioned-- I won't annoy you by repeating the rest; but it is the opinion of every one. Why, there was Mr. L--; he said to my husband, that his opinion of Mr. Hardman's good sense and respectability were unavoidably shaken,--these were his words, 'unavoidably shaken.'"
"Mrs. Sharp, I beg you will explain yourself," exclaimed
Mrs. Hardman, becoming crimson with anger and impatience; "I cannot
guess what you are talking of."
"Can you not, indeed? Well, then, it must be because you do not
see it in the light that I do, and that every one else does. Perhaps it is
not the kind of misfortune that affects you--people are so different!
To be sure, it is not like a loss of money; but, for my part, I am so
sensitive, there is no misfortune I would not bear sooner than disgrace. It
would be to me worse than any affliction. I declare to you
I would rather see Mr. Sharp expire before my eyes than be disgraced as you have been."
"Disgrace is not a word that ever applied to me or any of my
family," exclaimed Mrs. Hardman; "I am sure of that, at all
events!"
"Of course you are; and that is just what makes this, in my
opinion, so heavy a trial to you. If it had been one of your own family,
(and I am sure I hope none of them ever will follow her
example,) you would have endured it as a domestic affliction; but to be so
lowered in the eyes of the world by a person who is not even a
relation!"
"How often am I to tell you that I don't know what you
mean?" screamed Mrs. Hardman, fairly driven out of her usual dignity
by her frantic curiosity; "if you have anything to say at all, why
don't you speak out?"
At these words Mrs. Sharp turned slowly round, and fixed her staring
eyes on the excited lady with a look of well-acted
astonishment:--"Do you really mean to say," she
replied, as the words dropped from her lips with exasperating coolness,
"that you have not heard --"
"I have heard nothing," shouted Mrs. Hardman, "I have
been telling you so for the last hour!" With that Mrs. Sharp elevated
her eyes, shook her head, clasped her hands, and nodded
mysteriously several times. During these evolutions, Mrs. Hardman looked at her as if she could have devoured her. Finally, losing all patience, she actually shook her by the arm and desired her to speak.
Mrs. Sharp, seeing that she had worked up her friend to a suitable state
of excitement, at once complied, and hastened to enlarge on the residence
of Agnes Maynard in the house of Richard Clayton, in terms which could have
been imagined only by a mind not merely devoid of the slightest refinement
or delicacy, but of principle also. We say devoid of principle, because,
had she judged Agnes and Richard by the high and holy standard set before
us all, she could not have considered them otherwise than as brother and
sister.
Mrs. Hardman and her husband, who had now come in, shocked and dismayed
at the manner in which she spoke, hurriedly demanded if Agnes had not been
residing with the elder Mr. Clayton. They had received but few
communications from the Mount since the death of Elizabeth, and were,
consequently, ignorant of many details.
A triumphant negative was given to their question by Mrs. Sharp, who
further proceeded to mix up with her statement the leaven of falsity and
exaggeration which is always to be
found in the discourse of such persons. She assured them that the conduct of Agnes was strongly reprobated by the society in the neighbourhood of B--, and that it was a matter of universal astonishment that Mr. Hardman should permit her to remain in so equivocal a situation. The furious indignation of the Hardmans at this account may be imagined; that their sense of propriety should be called in question by the world of their idolatry, was an affront not to be endured, and it might prove very injurious to Mr. Hardman were it known that he had left his ward in a doubtful position. They declared to Mrs. Sharp, that they were under a deep sense of obligation to her, that they had been grossly deceived, but that they would rectify their unconscious error that very day. To which she responded with an air of virtuous modesty, that she had only done her duty--that she applauded their resolution of speedily interfering in this unpleasant affair; and then took her leave, fortified by their praises for some yet more determined assault on the domestic happiness of a few more of her friends.
By that night's post a letter was despatched to Agnes, the joint
composition of Mr. and Mrs. Hardman, in which her present position, as it
appeared in the eyes of the world, was
qualified in terms that must wound her beyond endurance; and which terminated with a peremptory order to her to place herself without delay under the escort of the person they would send to conduct her to London, where she was henceforward to reside in their house as her sister had done.
In their own house Agnes had taken care
that all should be cheerfulness and gaiety, and Richard thought with delight of the bright scene that waited him as he rode home through the darkness that evening. He had been called to some distance on business; he was chilled and wearied, and he pictured to himself the well lighted room, with the huge fire blazing on the hearth, and the little Mary springing from the arms of her young aunt to meet him.
The scene which did in fact await him at the Mount, was a melancholy
contrast to this pleasing vision. He went first to the drawing-room,
already surprised that no one met him at the door. There was no light
there, and the room was in disorder; but most of all, he missed the sweet
face of Agnes brightening so gaily at his approach. It was the first time
she had ever failed to welcome him, and a sudden foreboding of evil
assailed him. He went hurriedly from room to room in search of her. He
called her anxiously, but no answer was returned. At last a sound of
stifled sobbing met his ear. It came from the sleeping room of his
children, and he opened the door at once and went in. Agnes was kneeling
beside the cradle of the little Mary, who had fallen asleep, her cheeks yet
wet with the tears she had shed in her innocent sympathy for the sorrow of
her aunt, though she had been unable to comprehend the
cause of it. Agnes had buried her face in the pillow, and was weeping as though her very heart would break. She started at the sound of Richard's voice, as he took her hands in his and besought her to tell him what had grieved her. Her distress was so violent that she could not speak for a few minutes; then she could only utter a few incoherent words. She pointed to the child, so beautiful and smiling in its quiet slumber.
"How can I ever bear to leave her!" she exclaimed;
"and still more, how could I leave you, dear Richard, and this happy
home--all, all I love in the world! How can I go? I cannot, I cannot!
I should die! I know that I should!" She spoke with that frantic
impatience of suffering which we should all be disposed to feel, had we no
pure and holy motive given us for a calm endurance. Richard was bewildered
with astonishment.
"What can you mean, Agnes?" he said; "Where would you
go? Who is it that would dare to take you from me?" She was sobbing
so much that she could not answer, but she pointed to the letter which lay
on the ground beside her. He took it up and read it through. Agnes looked
up at him when he had finished it, and she was perfectly appalled by the
storm of passion which convulsed his features. He
actually shook with anger; he crushed the letter in his hand till not a word was legible; then, trampling it under foot, he burst into the most tremendous invectives against those who had written it. Agnes trembled with terror at his violence. She almost forgot her grief in her anxiety. She rose up, and clinging to his arm, implored of him to be more composed.
"Dear Richard," she said, "it can do no good to use
these terrible words against them; let us think rather what we are to do. I
cannot go, I feel that I cannot; it would kill me!"
"You shall not," said Richard, turning to her almost
fiercely. "I tell you, you shall not leave me; no power on earth will
induce me to part from you."
"But how? how?" said Agnes. "I cannot stay when such
terms have been used towards me." She covered her face with her hands
as she spoke: her movement seemed to increase the fury of
Richard's indignation, but a stern resolution made him now more calm;
he drew away her hands, and bid her look up boldly.
"Agnes," he said, "I must take this night to consider
how the matter had best be managed, but I charge you in the mean time to
remain convinced of this--you shall not leave me; we shall not be
separated, come what may; I will never consent to part with you." His
tone of
decision, and his look of settled determination, gave Agnes an involuntary faith in his words, though she could not at all perceive how they were to be verified; but her womanly feeling of helplessness compelled her to rely with unquestioning trust on his promise, that he would save her from the trial she could not and would not bear.
"I will leave it all to you, then," she said, "for I
am bewildered,--I cannot tell what is to be done. I only know I
cannot leave you and those dear children:--Who
would care for them as I have done?"
"Who indeed? and for their sakes, Agnes, we must not scruple at
any measure which shall ensure to them your tender love and watchfulness.
Fear nothing, then; go and sleep in peace; to-morrow we will make
some arrangement by which we can defy the world to separate us."
And Agnes did rest calmly that night with Mary nestling in her arms. She
felt as though she must keep guard over this precious child, even through
the darkness, lest they stole her away; but she trusted with the most
perfect security to Richard's assurances, nothing doubting that he
could perform what he had promised.
For Richard Clayton, however, there was no rest that night; hour after
hour he paced to
and fro in anxious reflection as to his future conduct. He was a shrewd and a clever man, and from the first moment when he read the Hardmans' letter, his acute mind had grasped the details of the case in their full extent, and he had perceived that there remained but one alternative for himself and his sister-in-law. It was perfectly impossible that Agnes Maynard should continue to reside in his house in a position which had called forth such remarks; he would have been the first to despise her had she done so; and yet with the same impatience of sorrow which she had manifested, and which is the characteristic of all undisciplined minds, he felt that he could not, he would not, lose her. Even for his children's sake she must remain. How could he endure to see them dying for want of the assiduous care which she alone could give them? Mary, who seemed to have no power to live, save in an atmosphere of love; and the fragile infant, his son, the pride of his heart, on whom so many hopes were built, only now beginning to exhibit symptoms of increasing strength and health, which all would vanish, as he knew full well, if a cold heart and careless hand alone were to be concerned in his welfare. Moreover Richard Clayton, although of a generous temper, was essentially selfish--peculiarities of disposition which are by no means incompatible.
He could not bear to think of his house in disorder, cheerless, and lonely, with all the petty cares of the "menage," which are so essentially a woman's province, devolving on himself. No; Agnes must remain with him; but there was one only position in which it was possible for her to do so--she must become his wife!
He would never have desired to look upon Agnes in any other light than
as his sister, had the unlawfulness of a union, such as that which he now
projected, been sufficiently felt and understood in this country to have
enabled her to remain with impunity in charge of his establishment.
This, however, is not the case,--to the destruction of much
domestic happiness, and of many of the holiest and best feelings of our
nature. It is certain that the unjustifiable license which has been given
to these marriages by the diversity of opinion on this point (so long
decided by primitive and holy authority), has driven many to form the
connexion from which their better feelings would otherwise have
revolted.
Richard Clayton was determined to retain the society of his
sister-in-law, and by this arrangement alone could he do so.
Therefore, following the inflexible law of his own inclination, he resolved
to accomplish it. He had no
pure and lofty principle in his own soul to restrain him, and for external obstacles he cared little, for he knew that such marriages had taken place. But he was not aware of the fact, that they are very generally reprobated by society.
Had Richard known that the world he loved so truly, severe in the
enforcement of its own code of conventional laws, has affixed a stigma to
the name of him who takes for his wife the woman who has been called his
sister, he would perhaps have been prevented by his worship of public
opinion from taking that step which his professed Christianity in vain
prohibited. He was ignorant, however, of the general feeling which is
fortunately so strong on this point, and he anticipated no opposition
excepting from his father. Mr. Clayton, he was certain, would view such a
deed with the sternest disapprobation.
But Richard had long ceased attempting even to follow in the straight
and narrow path which his father, uncompromising in his high standard of
right and wrong, had traced out before him. He could not have taken one
step in such a course, unassisted by that self-denial, without which
it is worse than mockery to profess the Holy Christian Faith, but which was
a blessing yet unknown to him. He, therefore, constantly
declared that it was quite impossible for him to please his father, and made this conviction a license to himself, recklessly to brave his displeasure at all times. One measure only must be taken with regard to Mr. Clayton,--the marriage must be carefully concealed from him until it was too late to prohibit it. From Agnes herself Richard expected no opposition; the idea would be startling to her at first, for he felt certain she bad never entertained a thought as to the possibility of such an arrangement; but he knew that he possessed great influence over her--the influence which a man of strong will must at all times possess over a weak and timid woman, unless there be in her that strength which is best shown forth in weakness. But most of all he relied on the all-powerful argument of his children's welfare, and her own bitter grief at the mere thought of leaving her happy home.
Richard Clayton had plausibly reasoned himself into the full belief that
he was acting for the best when he went next morning to offer Agnes Maynard
the position of wife in the house where she had dwelt as sister; and yet
there was a feeling of conscious guilt at his heart when she came to meet
him with her frank warm greeting, and addressed him by the name of brother,
which, for the first time, grated so unpleasantly
on his ears. The sight of his children, however, reassured him--they seemed to plead his cause already. The infant lay on Agnes' knees, now showing signs of intelligence, and smiling at the sound of her sweet well-known voice; whilst Mary clung to her hand, which she kissed repeatedly. Richard looked on the group for a moment, and then spoke in an earnest and serious tone which his anxiety rendered impressive. He told her calmly and boldly the result of his deliberations. They had mutually agreed that, happen what might, they would remain together. In one manner only was this possible--she must consent to marry him. The violent start, the rush of warm blood to her very forehead, the wild bewildered glance of her eyes upon his face--for all this Richard was fully prepared; but he trembled for the success of his plan, when he saw that she shrunk from his side where she had placed herself so confidingly, and that her breast seemed heaving with some strong emotion. It was many minutes before she could speak; and when at last her words came, seemingly from her very heart, with a heavy sigh, they were but these:--"Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth!" It was the voice of her conscience which spoke in that brief exclamation, too much warped and deadened by indifference and false sentiment to arouse her at
once with the remembrance of the immaculate holiness of the faith to which she was pledged; it seemed, with a sudden instinct, to raise up the dead before her as a barrier between herself and the man who sought to make her his wife.
Yet this was but a vague and weak obstacle wherewith to oppose the
concentrated strength of her affection for all those dear ones round her.
Had there ever been in her soul one pure and firm determination to follow
in the painful steps of Him, who for her sake had not where to lay His
head, how willingly would she have abandoned home and friends, and all
earth's dearest joys, rather than have deviated one hair's
breadth from the line of severest holiness and rectitude! But she had never
known any such solemn and blessed delivering up of self at the foot of the
Cross; she had made herself at all times so much the slave of her own
feelings, that it could not be expected that they should fail to obtain the
mastery at this the crisis of her fate.
It is needless to repeat all the arguments by which Richard induced her
to give him a favourable answer. They were such as have been mentioned
already, and for a mind constituted like that of Agnes Maynard certainly
most powerful. Her French education had
tended sadly to falsify her sense of right and wrong; and many things seemed to her pardonable, and even justifiable, that would have shocked a mind never subjected to the poisonous influence that had not been without effect on hers. It was this that enabled her to adopt so readily the shallow sophistry of Richard, who answered her, when she attempted feebly to urge the peculiar connexion which already existed between them, by reminding her that he had known her before his engagement with her sister, she would not have scrupled to have married him then, and why should she do so now? Their connexion was but in name. Would she, for the sake of a name--a shadow, sacrifice his happiness and her own--the life of those dear children? He took the little hands of his innocent Mary and folded them in his own that she might plead for him, and Agnes yielded. Richard Clayton effected his purpose--his sister-in-law agreed to become his wife.
During the interval which followed, Agnes seemed desirous to drive the
whole affair from her thoughts altogether. She appeared to be animated with
a forced and unnatural gaiety; laughed and talked far more than usual; and
would not allow the children to quit her for a moment. Richard occupied
himself so incessantly with the necessary and somewhat difficult
preparations, that he excluded all other thoughts; but the truth was, that
neither of them was so calm inwardly as they sought to appear to one
another. Without communicating their feelings to each other, they
simul-
taneously avoided the church, for they could not endure to pass the grave of Elizabeth.
No answer was sent to Mr. Hardman's letter, and it was speedily
followed by another full of the most bitter indignation against Agnes. He
concluded by saying, that if she did not appear at his house in London
within a given time, he would himself come in search of her to
B--.
"We shall pass him on the road," said Richard scornfully, as
he handed the letter to Agnes; "we must be married in
London."
"Not here?" asked Agnes, in a tremulous voice.
"Here!" replied Richard, angrily; "what are you thinking
of?--how is it possible? do you suppose my father, or Mr. Lambert,
would ever consent?" Agnes felt a cold shiver pass through her frame,
she scarce knew why, but she made no answer.
Richard had found that it was more easy to decide upon such a step than
to put it in execution; there were several difficulties to be overcome. He
had to investigate into the state of the law respecting marriages of this
nature; and he found, although not at that period declared null and void,
as they have since been by the passing of the Act to that effect in 1835,
they were even then voidable, and capable of being set aside
altogether. This could only be done, however, if an action was
brought against them during the life-time of both parties, and Richard's fears were quieted at once when he discovered that it was so, as he did not conceive it possible that any one could ever find it his interest to attempt such a measure.
Another obstacle seemed to him more serious, which was the possibility
that no clergyman would consent to perform the ceremony. A little
reflection, however, soon overcame this difficulty. It was very easy to go
to London, where the parish priest of some populous district, in which the
names of Richard Clayton and Agnes Maynard were quite unknown, would never
think of asking if any peculiar connexion subsisted between them.
Richard wrote to a lady, a cousin of his own, who resided in London,
whose theory it was, that all duties which interfered with inclination were
overmuch righteousness; and having communicated to her the state of the
case, begged of her to receive Agnes into her house during the three weeks
which must be given to the publishing of the banns. He received an answer
complying with his request and promising secresy. He then told his father
that he was going to take Agnes to London for a few weeks to visit a
friend, and the next day they left the Mount together.
It was a cold gloomy morning on which
they commenced their journey. Agnes was deadly pale: she shivered violently, and averted her head as they passed the churchyard. Richard asked, with considerable irritation, what was the reason of the tears that filled her eyes? and she answered, that she grieved to leave the children--it was the first time she had quitted them. "Well, now you will be with them always after this; so pray let me see you gay and happy, Agnes. You could not have seemed more dismal, if I had been taking you to Mr. Hardman's." This allusion had the effect he desired: her face brightened immediately. She began to laugh merrily at the idea that her guardian was probably leaving London that day in search of her; and Richard had no further reason to complain of her sadness, although her gaiety was somewhat forced.
During the three weeks which followed their arrival in London, Richard
took care, with the willing assistance of his cousin, that Agnes should be
continually occupied with some amusement, which left her no time for
thought. She was thankful, indeed, to be spared all reflection; for, in
spite of herself, there was a vague and painful feeling which she could not
define, that haunted her at all times when Richard alluded to their
marriage. Even the
night before it took place,--the night that surely, in all similar cases, should be devoted to most earnest prayer for grace to perform the solemn vows about to be taken,--was spent by Agnes Maynard at the theatre; and when she awoke next morning, tired and depressed, she could scarce believe that this was indeed her wedding-day. Her wedding-day! How differently had she pictured it to herself in her bright visions years ago! How often had she fancied herself going forth an honoured bride, amid warm congratulations and friendly wishes, to become a happy wife in face of all the world! If ever a day in her whole life was to be bright and joyous, she had thought it should be this, when, by a most holy ordinance, she was to receive the promise of unchanging affection from one who was to be her protector and guide even to her life's end; and to herself was to be given the blessed task of smoothing for him the rugged path of life, and devoting herself to him as tender friend and faithful wife. And now the day was come; but how could she feel glad or thankful for it, when she was going forth stealthily--as if about to do some evil deed--to unite herself to one whom she well knew many would say ought never to have been her husband! Instead of rejoicings and festivities to celebrate her marriage, concealment and decep-
tion were necessary, before it could be effected at all. The numerous friends sympathising in her happiness were to be replaced by two witnesses whose services were remunerated; and this hour, so momentous and agitating for her, must be met alone and unsupported.
There was a heavy weight at the heart of Agnes Maynard, as she looked
out and saw the one single carriage that stood at the door, to convey
herself and her future husband to the church. Heaven did not smile upon
her; for a dull, heavy rain was pouring from the thick black clouds; and
she remembered, with the painfully-superstitious feeling which at
times assails us all, the old proverb, that a weeping sky forebodes a
weeping bride.
Richard's cousin accompanied them; but, as she was a lady
profoundly devoted to her own comfort, it was not without considerable
difficulty that he could induce her to leave the house in such weather; and
she did not scruple to manifest her discontent during the whole of their
cheerless drive, shivering and complaining of the cold, without a thought
for poor Agnes, who sat crouching in the corner, pale as death. When they
reached the church, the lady ensconced herself in a pew, and, desiring them
to call her when they were ready to return, left them to proceed alone
towards the altar. Agnes
trembled so violently, that she could scarcely walk; and Richard rebuked her somewhat harshly, for being, as he said, absurdly nervous. They had been on too intimate terms during their former intercourse to admit of his treating her with that peculiar homage which is generally offered to a young bride at such an hour; and the angry words that at another time would have affected her but little, seemed cruel to Agnes, as she ascended the altar-steps. They stood side by side: the clergyman hurried over a duty which the cold and comfortless aspect of all around rendered by no means pleasant. They took those solemn vows whereby two human beings are constituted guardians of one another's happiness, and each is provided with a friend whom neither time nor change, sickne